Chapter Two

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"Dread is not in charity, but perfect charity putteth out dread; for dread hath pain."

Wycliffe's Translation 1 John 4;8

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The night's wind blew in from the sea and hurled an onslaught of pebbles against the old house's planked door. The percussion upon the oak aroused Philip from his fit-full night's sleep.

He rose to fan the last glowing coals and fuel the house's small fire. Filling the kettle over the embers with water to heat, the memory of his night's dream ravaged upon him with foggy dread like the sandy pebbles that were striking their door.

Dreams seldom visited Philip's sleep. When he did spend any moments beyond wakefulness his nights were quiet and peaceful. Having spent a restless and fitful night filled of vivid and horrific details of battle, Philip's unease boiled as the kettle now did.

He removed the scalding pot as the same nagging ballad wormed back into his mind and upon his lips, he hummed.


"This began on Cheviot the hills abune°

Early on a Monenday;°

By that it drew to the hour of noon

A hundred fat harts dead there lay."

Philip failed to recall having ever had such grimacing terrors visit his sleep. The past night's turmoil would leave a wrenched taste in his mouth through the day. Watching the glowing coals, he tried to recollect each detail as they had unfolded, though the harder he tried to remember the farther away the dreams seemed. Only Philip's bitterness of his old friend Percy's presence in his dream remained. As the tune within his skull continued:

"They blew a mort° upon the bent,

They 'sembled on ides shear;°

To the quarry° then the Percy went

To the brittling° of the deer."

And this ugliness quickly transformed into what he could feel as tormenting leg cramps.

Cramps that he could do nothing to quell; spasms near his pelvis that he had never experienced before doubled him over and forced him to sit cross-legged to continue stoking the ever-growing fire.

The fire warmed the dented kettle, Philip lost all interest in his dreams that had only moments prior gripped his heart. And as rapidly as the pain had subsided, so too did his need to explain the dream.


A.Jokinen, The Ballad of Chevey Chase: 1430, http://www.liminarium.org.

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